Retribution of Nonsense

If you get a longing for Benidorm,

it’s crucial, early doors, you realize

the wild pigs of Gaia could burgle your home.

The best looking sow will pick-the-locks, some

porkers will look-out (with piggy eyes)

while you get in the car for Benidorm.

Grunting swine in bed will be the norm

and shitting in the yard to attract flies

when the wild pigs of Gaia burgle your home.

They’ll snout your whiskey, watch some piggy-porn;

hog truffles, popcorn, apples and pork pies

when you are in the air for Benidorm.

Your bath and pillows will be rancid, warm,

with ham and eggs and sausages and fries;

the wild pigs of Gaia have burgled your home.

Drink Oloroso in the aerodrome

while big bad wolves are howling at the skies

and if you get an urge for Benidorm,

the wild pigs of Gaia will burgle your home.

Towards the City

fleeting from a train,

eye-poking spring

trees, innumerable leaves

and fuzzy humans, blurring back.

Perhaps they’re talking to each other,

perhaps uninterested, perhaps alone,

lonely but they’re flying, momentary,

someplace else altogether.

Friendly Lord's Prayer

Spirit of a treetop

sweeping through a tiny room;

come in, sit yourself down,

so we can have some little time.

What mischief can we conjure?

What omelets to eat?

What mirrors to look into?

What major chords to sing to?

Until this fiery day has turned – complete.

This morning

I parted from her,
met him, and(longing for her)
talked to her,   not him.

Facing the Void

When he smelt the fresher sweat,

tasted little tangs of ‘fear’,

saw the faces turn towards

ancient feel of cap-on-head

that’s when he heard the challenge come!

When he faced the faceless drop,

smelt the bitter coffee top,

heard the cuckoo new in Spring,

saw a billboard’s naked charm

fully, this time, empty now:

dilating lungs and lugholes, eyes;

he named a deeper prayer inside (not history);

his mystery.

Fate

I reckon getting hammered is the right

idea for every other Friday night.

Now I’m pissed and sitting in the rain,

longing for an orange sun again.

And, look, I see a pattern in the stars,

turning and spinning on some axis there.

Ar-ar-ar-ar-ar-ar-ar-ar -- Aaaarrrgggggggghhhvv!

Better! There we are, a truth, my love.

Bill's Gate

It would be great to own a field,

not sell it for the dosh:

with a splashy, babbling stream,

a hawthorn bush,

a 5-bar gate

to navigate;

lie down til late,

reflect on fate;

which does explain

why a windows laptop

lights a field inside

its tiny oblong frame

and plays a song – 

da da dar dar dum – worldwide.